The Last Widow. Karin Slaughter

her toes. Needle tracks. They had drugged her. They had cut her. She was bleeding between her legs.

       Rape.

      “Don’t scream,” Hank said.

      Before Sara could react, a blinding pain shot from her wrist to her arm and into her shoulder. She was forced onto her knees. The road bit into her skin. Hank twisted her arm again. Sara had her fingers laced behind her head by the time Will reached the BMW.

      He leaned into the car.

      He looked up.

      His jaw tightened down so hard that she could see the outline of the bones.

      Sara watched his eyes track—Hank pointing a gun at her head. Michelle holding up her bloody pants. Three armed men surrounding him. No way to save Sara even if he sacrificed himself in the process.

      This final realization brought an expression to his face that Sara had never seen before:

       Fear.

      “You let—” Michelle’s voice was hoarse. She was talking to Hank. “You l-let him rape me.”

      The words were a hammer to Sara’s heart.

      “You c-can’t—” Michelle gulped. “You can’t pretend it’s n-not happening. I’m telling you now. You know what he—”

      “All right!” Hank shouted over her. He told Will, “I need you to slowly get your head out of the car and put your hands up.”

      Sara could only watch as Will complied. His eyes kept darting around. His brain was furiously working, trying to find a way out of this.

      There was no way out.

      They were going to kill Will. They were going to make Sara fix them and then they were going to tear her apart.

      “You let him do it,” Michelle whispered. “You let him h-hurt me. You let him—”

      “We need a doctor,” Hank shouted at Will. “No offense, brother. Wrong place, right time. Let’s go, lady. Get in the car.”

      Sara had been expecting this moment, but she did not realize until now what her response would be.

      “No.”

      She didn’t move.

      Her knees were part of the asphalt.

      She was as sentient as a mountain.

      Sara had been raped in college. Viciously, brutally, savagely raped. She had been robbed of her ability to have children. Had her sense of self, her sense of safety, forever stolen. The experience had altered her in ways that she still, almost twenty years later, was discovering. She had vowed that she would never let that happen to her ever again.

      Hank’s grip tightened around her arm.

      “No.” Sara wrenched away from him. The fear had drained away. She would die before she let them take her. Sara had never been more certain of anything in her life. “I’m not going with you.”

      “Lady, that wasn’t a gas main that exploded at the campus.” Hank looked at Will. “We just blew up dozens, maybe hundreds of people. Do you think I give a shit about having your blood on my hands?”

      His words nearly cut her in two. All of those sick and injured people. Students and children and staff who had devoted their lives to helping others.

      “No,” Sara repeated. She was openly crying. They were going to kill her eventually. All she could control was what happened between now and then.

      “Get in the car.”

      “I won’t go with you. I won’t help you. You’ll have to shoot me.” She stared her resignation into Will. She needed him to understand why she was refusing to go.

      Will’s throat worked. Tears were in his eyes.

      Slowly, finally, he nodded.

      “How about I kill her?” Hank pointed the gun at Michelle.

      “Do it.” Michelle’s voice was strong, devoid of her earlier stutter. “Go ahead, you spineless piece of shit.” Her fist was clenched around the waist of her pants. Sara could see a bloody bandage, popped sutures, at her bikini line.

       Had they operated on her?

      “You still think you’re a good man,” Michelle told Hank. “What’s your father going to say when he hears about who you really are? I heard you talking about your dad, how he’s your hero, how you wanted to make him proud. He’s sick. He’s going to die. His last breath, he’s gonna know what kind of monster he helped bring into this world.”

      Clinton laughed. “Damn, girl, the way you’re talking makes me wonder how tight your daughter’s pussy is.”

      There was a flurry of movement above Sara’s head. Hank’s arm swung around, pointing the gun at Clinton.

       Click-click-click.

      The gun had jammed.

      “You son of a—” Clinton’s Glock was out of his holster.

      Hank dragged Michelle down to the ground as the gun fired. Sara closed her eyes. She stayed exactly where she was, sitting up on her knees, fingers laced behind her head, and waited for the bullet.

      There wasn’t one.

      She heard two more gunshots in rapid succession.

      Sara opened her eyes. Merle lay dead on the ground. Vince/Vale had been wounded. He fell out of the open door of the car. Blood flowered from the wound in his side.

      Will had shot them. He was turning to do the same to Clinton when the man tackled him to the ground.

      Sara pushed herself up to run.

      She was flung back down.

      Hank’s arm wrapped around her neck. Chokehold. Her vision swam. She clawed at his skin. “Let me go!” she screamed, biting, scratching, kicking.

      There was a dark blur out of the corner of her eye. The distinctive, long barrel of a Glock 22. Called a man-stopper because the .40 caliber ammo would stop a man dead in his tracks.

      Hank had the gun pointed at the ground. His finger rested above the trigger guard, ready to fire if needed.

      It wasn’t needed.

      Clinton was pounding his fists into Will’s belly. Liver. Spleen. Pancreas. Kidneys. He was using his hands like a pile driver to break them apart.

      “Stop him,” Sara pleaded. “He’s going to kill—”

      Will’s hand slashed out at Clinton’s face. The folding knife. The four-inch blade was razor sharp. Blood ripped a line through the air.

      Clinton reared back.

      Will stabbed him in the groin.

      Sara stood up, but Hank kept her from running. His arm was tight around her neck. He kept the Glock pointed downward, but his finger was stiff beside the trigger. The muscles in his forearm were like rope.

      “Will—” His name got caught in Sara’s throat.

      He coughed up blood. He rolled to his side. He was clutching his belly, trying to stand up, looking for the revolver.

      Hank told Sara, “You go with us, or I’ll shoot him in the chest.”

      A sob bruised her throat. She reached out her hand as if she could help him.

      Will’s legs tensed as he tried to get up again. Vomit roiled from his mouth. Blood dripped from the back of his head. He got to his knees, but fell flat.

      Sara cried out as if her own body had slammed into the ground.

      “Doc?” Hank finally raised the gun, aiming it at Will.

      Sara